Till Cancer Do Us Part
by kanmuri
Summary: Wilson, House, the last few months, and how the hallucinations aren't necessarily a bad thing. House/Wilson, character death.


Title: Till Cancer Do Us Part

Disclaimer: David Shore, yada yada, I own only my tears.

Pairing/s: House/Wilson, kind of House/Stacey at the end.

Summary: Change is _hard._

A/N: Wrote this ages ago, right after the finale aired, but only felt comfortable publishing it now. Longer than I'm used to.

* * *

They don't _quite _go on a road trip - after last time, neither of them can really get it up for the idea. They do go motorcycling a lot, and hitchhiking sometimes, and sometimes they just get in Wilson's car and _drive,_ neither of them saying anything, neither of them needing to.

House has moved in with Wilson again. Of course, they have to keep it quiet, so they're looking for another house, preferably one close to a hospital. Well, preferable for House anyway; Wilson still shies away from the subject. And sometimes he doesn't shy away from it, and they spend half the night yelling and the other half not talking to each other, and Wilson cries a little and sometimes House cries, too. By morning it's usually better, and they go out to Niagara Falls or to some shitty McDonald's or to the old lady down the street's so Wilson can help her feed her cat.

It doesn't really matter where they go in the end, House figures. Just as long as they do it. Wilson wants to go to London to see Big Ben, to Venice, to Rome. He's been to all those places before, but never with House, and that's kind of the point after all, isn't it?

They go bungee jumping together and sightseeing and eat exotic foods and see exotic animals. And it's fun, mostly, except when Wilson has to stop walking because he's a little busy choking on a _lung_ or when he spends the day sleeping. Then two bad things happen: One, Gregory House is left to his own devices, and two, Gregory House gets _bored._

So often Wilson will wake up and find out he's been tied to his bed, or there will be drugs in his coffee (actually not harmful - see, House _is_ changing for the better!) or his Facebook name has been changed to Seymour Dyck. And it's okay, and House can see that it's comforting because waking up like this ensures that Wilson _can_ wake up, and also that there's someone there to wake up to. And though the guy will bitch like there's no tomorrow, House can tell he's grateful.

It's kinda ridiculous, House realizes one morning as he wakes to the sound of Wilson freaking _blow-drying his hair _- seriously, the guy has cancer and he's still trying to look good? - it's kinda ridiculous how easy this is. It's ridiculous how... how much the _same _everything stays. It should be illegal or something, he decides. Because everything's changing, _House _is changing, but _House and Wilson_ are the same they were from day one. Only real difference is that now they're getting arrested _together,_ and Foreman's the one bailing them out. Yeah, Foreman figured it out. House always knew the man had to have something big on him to make up for his tiny little heart - thank God it was his brain in the end.

"Made coffee!" House calls to Wilson, because his head is beginning to hurt from thinking about all this and Wilson needs to come down and share the stupid. Wilson dutifully puts down the hair-dryer and comes to the kitchen table, glowering suspiciously at the cup in House's hand.

"Filter," he orders, and House heaves a sigh.

Once Wilson has completely analyzed and debriefed the coffee to within an inch of its life, he takes a cautious sip, and a small smile spreads across his face. House can't help but feel a little proud, because yeah, he makes _awesome _coffee. He only allows himself a brief moment of pride, though, before he whips out the water gun he's been hiding under the table and suddenly Wilson's face is dripping wet.

While Wilson struggles to come to grips with this occurrence, House begins to speak conversationally about the plans for the day. "I was thinking maybe New York today," he says. "Time Square, the big library, yada yada. Sound good?"

Wilson just gives him this look that kinda reminds House of a kicked puppy before he shouts, "Oops!" and throws his _hot, boiling hell_ of coffee all over House and leaves without a word.

House shouts obscene words at the coward's retreating back. Then he grins.

Five months left? Yeah, they could probably take over the world in that time.

* * *

They go to New York that day, but because Wilson is a freaking _woman_ they don't leave till 5:00 pm and by the time they actually get there there's not really much point in doing any sight-seeing anyway. So they find a nice hotel and settle in - one room. They don't want to draw attention to themselves.

Hah.

It's not long before the entire _hotel_ knows that there's two men staying with each other in the same room – apparently they've manage to land within the bible belt of New York, whodda thunk? They try to pass off as brothers – that is the official story, after all – but House doubts anyone believes him. "Everybody lies," he informs Wilson that night, before collapsing on Wilson's designated bed and spreading out so much that there's no room for Wilson at all.

House is beginning to have trouble believing their story himself when Wilson apparently decides the only solution to this problem is to _jump on top of House_ and fall asleep almost immediately. It's not so bad, Wilson is far lighter than he should be (which House is _not_ thinking about right now or he'll probably cry himself to sleep), but House can't help but smile a little as Wilson's hot breath tickles his stubble.

"I still sometimes hallucinate about your dead girlfriend," House informs Wilson one evening.

Wilson nearly chokes on his drink. "_What_?"

"Well, when I say 'sometimes' I mean 'maybe once a month'," House corrects himself, leaning in to stare at Wilson. Sometimes he likes to believe that his glorious brain is actually some miraculous power that he has that allows him to see into people's souls. Of course, that fantasy came from when he was about seven, and had no logical way to explain why he was so much damn smarter than anyone else, so it's gone kinda dead now.

He tries to stare into Wilson's soul, but as usual the guy's a closed book to him. It sucks. Wilson should be the easiest person in the world to read. But when he frowns and says very seriously, "You need help, House," House can't tell if the words stem from actual concern or sarcasm.

Sometimes with Wilson, the two are one and the same.

"Kutner sometimes makes it into my fantasies, too," House adds helpfully. "And my hallucinations, but those are less frequent and he's more annoying in those, so I usually ignore him."

Wilson is staring at him very strangely, looking vaguely disturbed. "Kutner committed suicide."

"And Amber was killed in a bus accident, what's your point?"

"Um, both are kind of dead?"

"Oh, don't be jealous, honey, your turn's coming soon," House snorts. "What have we got, like nineteen weeks left?"

Wilson glances down, and House tries to feel bad, he really does, but the truth is House _himself_ is hurting right now and despite his best efforts that _still_ trumps Wilson's pain in his mind. For all he's trying to change, deep down he thinks maybe there's no use to trying.

"You said 'we'," mutters Wilson, quiet enough that House knows the words were intended to be ignored if he wished.

He wished.

* * *

House has to give him credit - it takes a whole two weeks before Wilson, stuttering and blushing like a fifth-grade girl, manages to mumble out that he might like to try a threesome again. Only... "With a... with a man, this time," he blurts, eyes wide.

House offers him a smirk and blows a little kiss. "I always knew you were gay for me," he tells him sincerely.

"I am not! I'm just – _curious, _is all!" Wilson throws his hands up in the air. "And I'm sorry if it hurts your feelings, House, but you weren't exactly what I had in mind when I said 'threesome.'"

House blinks. "Really?"

"Really."

"Huh." Now that was a little unexpected, he admits. House knows, _knows_ Wilson, knows that he'd rather have familiarity in uncomfortable situations, that sex with strangers has always been frightening for him, that sex with a _man _will be outright terrifying. Wilson _should_ be jumping at the chance to sleep with House in his adorable bi-curious ways. Maybe he just needs a little convincing. House quickly goes through all he knows about comforting closeted-gays, considers it, mentally crumples the list and throws it to the back of his mind. He's Wilson's best _friend,_ if he can't manage to get Wilson to have a threesome with him, no one can.

_Wait,_ House thinks, realizing there might be something a little off on that thought, but before he can stop himself he's saying, "Well, you had trouble enough trying to convince a chick to do the dirty deed with you, how much harder do you think it will be to get a guy?"

Wilson looks uncomfortable. "I, uh... can't you just. Um. Hire one?" he asks.

"I knew you were smarter than me. Oh, wait. I don't have any cash. Or credit cards. Or, hey, money at all, considering the fact that I'm just a little bit _dead_ right now."

"You can use my money, you know," WIlson sighs.

"No," House says petulantly.

"No?"

"No."

"Well then I'll find one myself," Wilson mutters, standing. House doesn't miss the flicker of sudden pain that darts about Wilson's face, nor the brief surge of concern that flutters in his own chest. For most people, he figures, the way he jerks to Wilson's side to help him out of the booth would be automatic, but he decides it's probably more poetic that helping Wilson isn't a reflex for him. Or, well, asshole-ish, but really. _Cancer._

"With what, your boyish good looks?" House grunts, and it's a low-blow, but he can't bring himself to regret it. Already, Wilson's looking tired, haggard. Already, he's lost weight that he can't afford to lose. Already, he's dying, and House hates that he's dying, hates the worry that curls up just under his lungs, hates the fact that soon Wilson won't be here to worry about.

Wilson doesn't seem hurt, though, just a little pained. "I thought we agreed my natural charm solved that issue."

"Right. Remind me the next time I have sex with someone that their _natural charm_ is what's getting me off."

"You could be a little more sensitive."

"My best friend wants to have a threesome party with another dude, and I'm not invited," House says. "I think I'm being _brilliantly_ sensitive."

Wilson blinks, then, and it's like some divine epiphany dawns on him in that instant. "Wait," he pronounces slowly, "Do you... do you _want _to sleep with me?"

And there it is, House's brain has actually broke from the stupid. "_No,"_ he bites in what is probably the most ground-breakingly sarcastic voice in existence. "I just hit on you for the _fun _of it. I've kept you by my side longer than any woman ever, I've lived with you and am living with you now, and you are just figuring it out?"

But Wilson still looks confused, is still frowning, his lips twitching slightly at the edges. "You're my friend -"

" – who also happens to want to bone you. It's a beautiful thing, isn't it?"

Now Wilson is smiling, and House can't help but feel vaguely disturbed. "Maybe," he allows. "I'm still not sleeping with you."

"We'll see," agrees House.

* * *

Drunk sex, House decides, is the best thing _ever._

It's not a new realization. He's always figured that if you're going to go there, you might as well do it with a bottle of Vodka and higher than a kite. Because sex is a lot of crazy, stupid, embarrassing shit, right? Might as well have a back-up excuse as to why you did _that_ particular thing last night. No, really. 'I was drunk' is an _awesome _excuse.

House does embarrassing shit with the girl, and then Wilson does, and it's great, it feels good, and then _whoa_ they're doing embarrassing shit with _each other_ and House thinks he just died a little and _holy shit this is great, there is a God, _and_ Wilson is Him_ are the only things that are going through his head. Then he loses the ability to think entirely, and that's really, really okay with him, because seriously, _yes_.

They wake up in the morning and the chick is gone, though whether it's because she's actually a hooker-in-secret or because she threw up all over his cock, he's not sure. All he knows is that he opens his eyes to Wilson's arm curled around the back of his head, and finds himself smiling a stupid smile that just will not go away.

"This is really fucking gay," Wilson says beside him.

House grins and rolls over, and they're practically nose-to-nose now, which he figures ups the gay-o-meter to Elton John levels of homo. "Cancer," he reminds Wilson, and presses a finger to his nose.

Wilson is sadly not impressed by House's attempts at pillow talk, which House accounts to the both of them being incredibly hungover as well as one of them _dying_ and the other being _legally dead. _It's a little sad how little actually impresses them these days.

"Before," Wilson says after a moment. "Before, you were telling me all the reasons why I should've realized you wanted to sleep with me."

_Here we go,_ thinks House. "What, do you want me to list them again in detail? Because I will. You're kind of dense, Wilson, I don't know if you've noticed," he says.

"List them again," says Wilson.

House considers. "...I've known you for decades," he begins. "I've dated during those decades, and how many girls am I still with right now? Well, unless you count Sally – "

"Sarah."

" – whoever, she _puked on my dick, Wilson –_ unless you count her, you're the only person I've ever stayed with. Who's ever stayed with me," House amends quickly. "We've lived together how many times? And enjoyed it. Well, I have anyway. I hit on you constantly. I gave up my life to spend five months with you. _You dated a version of me with boobs._ I still find it kind of surreal that you never figured it out till now."

Wilson is quiet for a long, careless moment. Then, quietly, he says, "All those reasons you just listed, House. Only one of them implies you'd actually want to sleep with me."

House's jaw drops. "I just told you that -"

"The rest imply being in love," Wilson finishes.

And okay, _so _not helping with the open-jaw thing. "Now who's fucking gay?" he mutters, once he finds his voice.

Wilson shrugs. "We just slept together, I think a little gayness is allowed," he says. "But really, House, if you'd hit on me and just left after I didn't respond, I would have clued in that you wanted to sleep with me. But you stayed, House. You _stayed."_

House _finally _manages to snap his jaw shut. There may or may not be a little drool dripping around his lips.

"Do you love me, House?" Wilson asks.

"You're gay," House tells him seriously. "You really can't deny it anymore."

"_House."_

"_Yes,_ okay? Fine. Uncle. I love you like Romeo and fucking Juliet. Do you feel better about yourself now?" House adds, because it irritates him that Wilson is grinning like an idiot. Alright, an attractive idiot, whose hair is mussed and begging to be ruffled, and _oh God_ he did not just think that, okay, stop talking now brain, you're a dick, _we get it._

He figures Wilson will do the whole 'I love you too' thing and then maybe give him a tender kiss, and then they'll be off again. He figures (hopes, really, 'cause it would be awesome) that they'll spend the rest of the morning fucking, and that the shower at the motel they're in will be big enough for some pretty excellent sporting activities. He figures they'll spend the rest of their lives doing this, and that will be okay, because this is probably the best thing that's happened to him in a very long time and he doesn't want to lose it.

But then Wilson's grin slips a little, and House wants to punch a baby. _Dammit._

"Did you just compare us to Romeo and Juliet?" Wilson asks.

_Fuck my life,_ thinks House.

"Uh," he tries, and fails. "Not in a _bad_ way." Because there's so many _good_ things about the most tragic love story of all time. "Can I take that statement back?" he asks.

Wilson shifts so that now there's some space between them, so that they're actually looking at each other now, not each other's noses. "No," he says, because he's a _dick._ "I've actually been wanting to talk to you about this for awhile now."

"Unless by 'this' you mean classic literature, I don't follow," House says a little desperately.

Wilson just looks at him.

_Fuck. My. Life, _House thinks.

"Are you going to kill yourself, House?"

House really, really doesn't know what to say, because he _wants_ to be better, he _wants_ to have changed, more than he's ever wanted anything, but faced with this question, he really doesn't know if he can. "I don't know," he admits, and Wilson sighs, rolling back over onto his back.

They're quiet for a moment, each lost in their own little worlds. And it's funny, House thinks. Funny how for so long now, they've shared the same world. Funny how in just five months (seventeen weeks, four days), that world will be gone. Poof. Dead.

"I want to be better," House blurts. Wilson turns his head to look at him. "I don't want to die miserable," he continues, a little more steadily. "I don't. But I don't think I can change, Wilson. I can't do it."

"Here's the thing about change," Wilson says absently, eyes wandering to the ceiling. "It's _hard_."

House stares at him, and stares and stares because they've only got five months left (_seventeen weeks_) and he doesn't want to spend a moment of them alone (_without Wilson). _And God, he's actually scared. He's scared that he won't change. He's scared that without Wilson, he won't be _able_ to change. He's scared that without Wilson – that Wilson –

"It takes time," Wilson is saying, in quiet, gentle tones. "But the more you want it, the harder you try, the easier it gets. It doesn't have to be a big change. Just little things here and there. Don't be an ass to someone! How's that for a thought? Just resist the sarcasm, I know you can do it, I've _seen_ you."

"You've also seen me naked," House offers helpfully. "And yet, you still don't know all the things I'm capable while in this particular state."

"_Yet_," Wilson says, then blushes. It's adorable.

Also kinda sexy, because the blush creeps up from the nape of his neck, wrapping around his ears and dusting his cheeks in a way that is not at all reminiscent of a couple hours ago. And hey, House is never one to leave the uneducated ignorant. "I guess we'll find out," he says, and away they go and never look back.

* * *

It's kinda ridiculous, House thinks, how much things stay the same. _House and Wilson_ (because it's never _just _House, never _just_ Wilson) don't change – they go through problems, yes, through issues of epic proportions, and sometimes Wilson throws a bitchfit and sometimes House stalks Wilson, but really, when has that ever not been true?

And sometimes House and Wilson sleep together, and that's cool too.

House wakes up one morning and realizes they only have two months left, _at the most_, and Wilson is so thin, and his eyes have shrunken back into his head and he's throwing up instead of blow-drying his hair like he should be, and all House wants to do is join him, because this _sucks. _

He makes coffee, but Wilson can't hold it down and it's all kind of pathetic, really. He's numbed on more narcotics than House thinks he's taken in his _life,_ and that's saying a lot. Sometimes, when the pain gets really bad, House takes them, too. But he's been relying less and less on Vicodin these days and he's not sure why, because his leg hurts like a motherfucker right now and he could _really_ use some numbness, thank you very much.

The month passes, and it feels like ice breaking until the day Wilson manages to gasp out, "House, I can't do this. I've got a couple weeks left. Please call my parents."

House blinks, shifts from his kneeling position beside Wilson's bed. "Time flies when you're having fun," he mutters, but he reaches for the phone and finally, _finally_ calls Wilson's mom, who, by the way, is _pissed._

Later, after all the crying and yelling and wailing and screaming is done, House takes Wilson down to their basement and turns on the TV, and they sit and watch Cartoon Network for awhile. Video games are out of the question; Wilson's too weak to even sit up straight and his motor control is shot to hell, plus House refuses to easy on him. He kicked his ass when Wilson was healthy anyway, why should he settle for anything less for some stupid cancer?

"House," Wilson says as Bugs Bunny smacks lipstick on his lips and kisses Elmer Fudd right on the mouth, "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

"Yup," House replies immediately, in an absent voice. "You're a manipulative bitch, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but am I actually bad? I mean... I'm Jewish, right? But I haven't exactly kept kosher or anything. I don't go to church every Sunday. Do you think... do you think that's enough to send me to Hell?"

House sighs, turns the volume down on the TV, looks at Wilson. Wilson is _dying. _They can't deny it anymore, they can't brush it off like a bad day. He's scrawny and pale and sweat coats his forehead like it's a part of him now.

"I think God – If He existed – would be more concerned that you _slept with a patient_ than the fact that you sometimes use naughty words," says House.

Wilson makes frustrated motions with his hands. "Yes, but – but you can be forgiven, right? I mean, if I can forgive you for all the stupid shit – err, crap you've done, don't you think God can forgive me?"

House considers. "Assuming God exists – which I don't – _assuming_ He does, He's probably way better than you. And I'm way worse than you. So, if it makes you feel any better, I bet if you say you're_ reeeal_ sorry for being a manipulative little bitch all the time, yeah, He could probably forgive you," House concludes, turning back to the TV.

"Could you forgive me?"

House starts. And then he's staring at Wilson, hard, because _whoa_ he did _not_ expect to have to go here right now. The religious shit he was expecting – this is _Wilson_, after all – but sometimes he forgets how easily, even while dying, Wilson can see through him.

House doesn't answer.

Wilson manages to summon up the strength (House doesn't know where from) to actually _poke_ House with the remote. "It's okay, you know," he says quietly, "if you can't. I get it, I understand."

"_No you don't!_" explodes House, and it's like the world is suddenly falling away beneath him, he's in the burning house _all over again_ and the floor is giving way. He throws himself to his feet and stabs an accusing finger at Wilson. "_I'm_ not the one dying here! _I'm_ not the one leaving everyone behind just because I'm too much of a wimp to bear a little pain! So don't you tell me you _get it_, because obviously you don't or you wouldn't be sitting here dying on my couch!" And he _hates_ this, he hates this, he hates this, he _hates_ this, but he's _changing_, right? He's doing it for Wilson. And that's gotta be enough, because soon that'll be all he'll have left.

"I do get it," Wilson insists. "House –"

"Shut the fuck up, Wilson," House mutters, and Wilson apparently has had enough, because he grips House's arm with all that he has and forces him to meet his eyes.

"_You died,_ House," he says, in a dangerously quiet voice. "I _burned your body. _I arranged _your funeral._ I thought you'd left me behind, forever, and you're a complete ass for doing that by the way, but believe me when I say _I understand. _Okay?" His grip, though weak, doesn't loosen. "_Okay?_"

And House can't find the words to respond, so he kisses Wilson, hard, on the mouth, and he _knows _Wilson will bruise from this, knows his papery-thin skin will bleed from House's nails digging into his arms but he can't bring himself to pull back, to be gentle because he knows he'll never be able to do this ever again.

They make love, and it's not gentle, not quiet, and Wilson doesn't even make it to climax. After, they clutch each other tight and House tries not let Wilson know that he's holding back self-pitying sobs because he knows Wilson is doing the same, and they bury themselves in each other and _sleep_, like they haven't done in months, and neither of them say it's going to be alright in the morning because they both know it really, really isn't.

* * *

From that point on, Wilson begins what House gleefully likes to refer to as his 'Let's keep House from shoving a bullet up his mouth' campaign. (House doesn't bother to tell him that he's far more likely to overdose on some sort of drug – best to keep the dying man happy and all that.) The first thing he tries is tentatively dubbed _'Friendship-is-magic_.' This attempt goes well until House actually opens his _mouth _and shows Wilson in depth exactly _why _he has had only one friend, ever. Wilson vents his frustrations by playing hemorrhage-inducing musical ballads that leave House's ears bleeding for _days_.

The next thing they try is finding House a new line of work. Wilson brightens considerably when one fine evening House casually mentions his on-and-off relationship with physics while in prison. "Brilliant," Wilson says, except it turns out it really actually _isn't_ brilliant because the job they find him at the local university requires pretty much _no_ human interaction and Wilson decides then and there that simply _won't do._

"Hate to say I told you so," House remarks later as they laze on the couch in the small apartment they've rented. "Oh, wait – I don't."

Wilson glowers and turns _'It's A Hard-Knock Life' _up a little louder.

Attempt numero 3 is labeled – with no small amount of bias, House thinks – _'Dammit-House-if-you-don't-make-some-sort-of-human -connection-I-will-rip-out-your-kidneys-and-feed-t hem-to-you.' _House (very reasonably) points out that if this event occurred, Wilson would probably just end up lending him whatever he had left of his own. Wilson doesn't speak to him for the rest of the day.

They go first to a club, then to a church, then to a freaking _coffee house._ House discovers that Wilson basically can't walk anymore, so they rent a wheelchair and carry on their mission, with pathetically little success.

"You're hopeless!" Wilson exclaims finally, and collapses on their queen-sized bed.

"Again, I totally told you so," House replies. He shoves Wilson a handful of Vicodin which Wilson swallows without comment.

They don't really get to explore the issue, however, as five minutes later Wilson's dry-heaving into the toilet, and then he's not dry-heaving anymore and there's blood everywhere, and House cleans it all up silently and puts Wilson to bed like the _dutiful housewife _he is. They don't wash up, don't make love, don't cry. House thinks maybe they're just all cried out these days. It's not an improvement.

* * *

"We're getting you a puppy," Wilson informs House firmly one night. They're sitting at the dinner table and House just stares blankly back at him for a full minute before Wilson sighs heavily and elaborates.

"In the past few days, it's become – _painfully _– clear to me that I've severely overestimated your ability to interact with humans on a somewhat normal level. But I still say we need you to connect in some way, shape or form to this world. I don't care how! Just connect." Wilson draws a raspy breath, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. "Hence, puppies."

"Wait, plural?" House doesn't squawk, eyes still set in a vacant stare.

Wilson makes a vague gesture in the air. "Not the point."

"And what _is_ the point exactly, if I may so humbly ask?"

"Connection," Wilson replies, stabbing a weakened finger in House's direction. "Connection, my good man."

House just rolls his eyes, because _really,_ this again? "What, I can't 'connect' with a cat?" he wonders with feigned interest.

"You can connect with an armadillo for all I care," says Wilson seriously, "but we are getting you some sort of pet if it kills me."

The joke falls less flat than expected, House muses with some surprise.

They do end up getting a dog in the end – something about its big, brown eyes, House tells Wilson later. He spends the rest of the night making various comparisons between the animal and his best friend, of which include its scrawniness, its golden-brown fur, and the fact that it has this 100% pathetic face that makes House itch to kick its ass.

"You are _not_ kicking it," Wilson stresses. "The point is to keep the thing alive."

"Wilson, it's not dying," House says. "A little boot wouldn't hurt it."

"I swear to Foreman, House, if you kick it I'll kick _you._"

"Hah! You can barely sit up straight, you think you can – _Ow, _mother_fucker!_"

House's (poor, innocent) balls take the rest of the night off to recuperate.

The next morning, they are presented with the dubious task of naming the thing. House's initial proposal of 'Puke-face Jimmy' is met with severe (_totally unfair_) disapproval from Wilson. (House doesn't mind – after all, Wilson isn't going to be here for much longer, anyway.)

"Oreo," Wilson suggests at last.

House shoots him a startled look. Oreo is a fine – albeit a bit pussy-ish – name for a black-and-white dog, sure, but this mutt? Long, silky golden-brown fur that House is positive will be a bitch on the carpet. (And the couch.) (And the bed.) 'Oreo' is probably the shittiest name in the history of man's-best-friend for this little guy.

"Oreo," House agrees, not breaking eye-contact with Wilson.

Ten days later, Wilson is dead.

* * *

House doesn't attend Wilson's funeral. What's the point? These last five months have been a funeral of themselves. Funerals exist for closure, right? For goodbyes, right? Yeah, House is _sick to death_ of funerals.

He cries for nine nights straight. He's a selfish person, after all.

For nine nights straight, he refuses to see anyone. Not the nice cat-lady down the street, not Foreman, not Cameron or Cuddy or Stacey. The only thing he sees is the stupid mutt, and that only because it needs food and water or else it will yowl all night.

Sometimes, Oreo curls up beside him on the empty side of the bed.

House kicks him. (But not too hard.)

On the tenth day, House goes outside for the first time in over a week.

He doesn't do it because it's warm outside, or because he needs fresh air, or because he's feeling even _remotely_ less shitty than yesterday. He does it because Oreo won't _shut the fuck up,_ and sometime last night he remembered that, _oh yeah, dogs need walks, don't they._

House takes Oreo for a long walk in the morning. By night, he still hasn't returned to the place he and Wilson once called 'home'.

Deep inside, he knows he never will.

* * *

"Everybody lies," he tells Oreo one night.

They've just come back from the bar – the only pet-friendly one in town – and House is busy cooking some steak on the stove in the one-room apartment they've rented. He's begun to pass Oreo off as a sort of guide-dog; with the handicap tag in his car, no one ever really tries to argue. Oreo comes with him to all sorts of places: the mall, the university, the freakin' tanning salon. (He only went there once to pick up chicks.) It's kind of comforting and kind of a nuisance, but in the end House doesn't think he minds that much.

"Everyone lies," he says again, stooping to _boop! _Oreo on the nose. "Except dogs. They're too frickin' pathetic to lie."

Oreo just lets out a long whine and leans down on the floor.

"Wilson lied," House adds thoughtfully. "Quite often and with gusto. He was pretty pathetic, too, but at least he didn't rely on me to feed him. Much." He feels a soft bump against his arm and looks down to see Oreo resting his head against it. House sighs, but doesn't push away.

He ended up taking that job at the university. He likes physics, after all. Physics, like dogs, are incapable of lying – they just hide the truth once in awhile.

Oreo agrees with him. Of course, Oreo is a mangy mutt with freakin' _fleas _and therefore all his opinions are rejected.

Besides the job, House also hasn't taken Vicodin in months. He wishes he could say it was for Wilson, but the truth is the pain in his leg is getting stronger every day (every _second_) and if his body would let him he'd drown in pills and painkillers until he died. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't open that stupid fucking bottle without getting light-headed and just a little sick.

House isn't doing so hot right now, if he's honest with himself. He knows it, his colleagues know it, even Oreo knows it. He should go see someone. No, he should stop this façade already and turn himself in, that's what he should do. But every day, he tells himself to wait just a little longer. Maybe change will come if he just _waits._

* * *

Change comes like a punch to the gut.

It's probably his fault. It's always his fault.

He can't remember who left the door open that night. The main one, not the door to his own personal apartment. He usually lets Oreo wander around the hallways in the evenings. His neighbours don't particularly care – Oreo is friendly enough, after all, and not at all loud when he's been fed recently. But _someone _left that fucking door open, and the next thing House knows there are people knocking to tell him that _"oh God oh God oh God I'm so sorry, he just jumped out in front of me, I didn't mean –"_

House slams the door shut with a bang.

It's been seven months since Wilson kicked the bucket. Seven months of work and take-out and lots and lots of dog food. Seven months of long walks in the evenings. Seven months of yapping in his ears. Seven months of Oreo taking up that empty side of the bed and it's over far sooner than he ever expected but _hell _he should have expected it anyway.

"That's the thing about change," Wilson's voice says in his head – loud, distorted. "Everybody _dies._"

Change comes, and with it the nightmares House has never had the courage to face.

* * *

It's Stacey he goes to in the end.

He winds up on her door unshaven and half-dead, looking for all the world like a stray dog who's been kicked one too many times. She stares at him blankly for a whole minute.

"Hope you have a free shoulder," he tells her. "I'm probably going to do a lot of crying."

He doesn't cry, but she lets him lean on her anyway, and she smells of cinnamon and other spices House doesn't care to name. He's exhausted and in pain and she leads him to her couch with a look of awe on her face. He doesn't cry, but he thinks she just might, if he doesn't say something soon.

"Greg," she breathes finally.

"Wilson's dead," he spits.

She doesn't say anything, just a quiet, "I know," as he buries his face into her shoulder.

It takes a few days before the story unravels on his lips. The real one – he could never lie to her, not really. She nods and is sympathetic and says "hmm" and "oh" in all the right places, and House tells her the story of the man he couldn't bear to leave (who never once left him).

Wilson's dead, see, and he can't _cry. _Wilson's dead, and after seven months the pain and grief and raw _anger _hasn't faded in the slightest.

(He cried for nine days, why does he feel like he should be crying now?)

House is hollow and sunken in. He's lost some weight – he looks at Stacey and can see the same concern in her eyes that were once in his as he gazed at Wilson. Okay, a lot of weight, then. Too much weight. He can't remember the last time he's eaten.

She looks him over (she's spent enough time in hospitals to know what looks right and what doesn't) and he winces in pain when she comes to the scar on his leg.

"Hurts?" she asks, and he manages a whimpered, "Yeah."

"How much?"

"Like I'm dying."

The next question is bitter on her lips, but he'd expected that. "Where's your Vicodin?"

"In my pocket," he tells her, "but I won't take it."

For a moment, a pained expression crosses her face. "Greg – "

"I can't take it," he amends quickly. "I'm sorry."

"Greg, if this is some stupid self-sacrificing –"

He cuts her off with a barking laugh. "When have you ever known me to be self-sacrificing, Stacey?" he asks, and tries not to think of a burning building, a body, and Wilson's soft brown eyes. "I. _Can't. _Take it. So please," he adds, gently, "don't try."

Stacey's contrary by nature. She shoves him down on the couch and digs her hand into his leg.

"Tell me why," she whispers.

House opens his mouth to tell her, "_I don't fucking know, okay?_" but the answer is suddenly clear in his mind. (Clear like a summer day, clear like Oreo's fur on his skin, clear like those soft brown eyes that haunt the back of his mind.) "I don't deserve it," he mutters, shielding his face from her. "I don't deserve to be without pain."

He looks up, and he expects to see disappointment, he expects to see shame, he expects to see pity. He expects to see anything but the way her face crumples like a paper bag.

Stacey is crying.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry he's gone, Greg. I'm sorry you feel like you deserve this, any of this. You don't, you know. You're beautiful, and kind, and I'm sorry it's too late for me to see that. I'm sorry James was the only one to see _you_, in the end."

She cries for another few minutes, her shoulders hitching with each sobbing breath. He pats her arm awkwardly. She's supposed to be comforting him, dammit, but she's a mess and he's a mess and Wilson's _dead_.

"Did you love him?" she asks suddenly.

He hesitates; nods. What's the point in keeping it a secret now?

"More than you loved me?"

Another pause, longer this time. Then he nods again, short and curt like his military father taught him.

Stacey's eyes open finally. They're red-rimmed and glassy, and House wishes for all the world that he were somewhere else. He wishes Oreo were here and he wishes Wilson weren't dead and he wishes he was young again, young and alive because all he is now is _dead dead dead_, both in name and in spirit.

_I'm sorry, _he thinks, but also, for the first time, _I want to _live_._

So he clings to Stacey, and Stacey clings back, and it doesn't matter it will never be the way it was, the way they both wish it were. It doesn't matter that the Vicodin's gone or that Wilson's gone or that the freaking mangy _mutt _is gone. It doesn't matter, because beneath all the sorrow and hurt House can suddenly feel something like wings lifting in his chest, something light and warm and soft like Wilson's eyes.

"That's the thing about change," says Wilson's voice in his ears, startlingly close and achingly far all at once. "It's hard. But who says you have to do it alone?"

There's a light growing just under House's ribcage, and he looks up and he sees the old hallucinations standing in front of him. Amber's arms are crossed and Kutner's head is cocked to the side and they stand together with open hands. And there's a new voice in House's head, suddenly, one that says "_you idiot" _and "_you asshole" _and "_I love you"_ all at once, words that intermingle with each other like they mean the same thing. There's a new hand on his shoulder, new and old like summer rain. There's a new song in his heart, and House looks up, and for the first time, he thinks he can believe in _God._

Wilson's no angel, but even his very face is a miracle.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
